I wonder why we accessorize. Color our hair. Shove our heads in the New York Times. Rehearse news in free local newspapers that only junk up the subway. Or romanticize our Berries, Sungs, Apples, Virgins. Whichever is your choice of a playmate. Defense mechanisms? For what? Wrapping up our emotions or blocking out faces that represent others’ ‘truths’? In front of me sits a White male – he's reading a paperback: The Biography or Abraham Lincoln, at 9.00 a.m. WTF? It might even be 9:07 a.m, for all you care. I don’t. Do you? Or even 9:11? (Like me, you probably hate it when you look at a clock and it says 9:11 -- that shit is scary, and that day sure did bang our brains off.)
I can't decide what time it really is, my Blackberry and my watch are like two feisty Latin lovers: they speak the same language, but they never can agree on whether to eat a tostada or not or which Kama Sutra position to choose from. I think the paperback guy’s motto for today is “Fuck all Nooks and Kindles.” But why read about “Dead Presidents” this early on a Tuesday morning? Remember that movie? If only it were 1995 again and Chris Tucker was flat-bellied again. As if you've never had a moment you wish you could moonwalk backwards in time. It’s an impossible feat, sure; this fast-forward moving train is the perfect anecdote that things will never be the same again.
I can't decide what time it really is, my Blackberry and my watch are like two feisty Latin lovers: they speak the same language, but they never can agree on whether to eat a tostada or not or which Kama Sutra position to choose from. I think the paperback guy’s motto for today is “Fuck all Nooks and Kindles.” But why read about “Dead Presidents” this early on a Tuesday morning? Remember that movie? If only it were 1995 again and Chris Tucker was flat-bellied again. As if you've never had a moment you wish you could moonwalk backwards in time. It’s an impossible feat, sure; this fast-forward moving train is the perfect anecdote that things will never be the same again.
Back to the lingering question: why do we hide behind these things...torn magazines with covers flanked by anorexic models internally begging for a double cheeseburger; blue eyeliners; knockoff Gucci bags; broken umbrellas; wallets carrying cold condoms fast asleep in their metallic covers, spit-filled lukewarm Starbucks coffee cups with a slight kiss of red?Same reason why I’m ‘heading’ my Blackberry, with no privacy, mind you, typing what you’re reading now. Truth is I don’t know really know why. But I know for certain that I want something I can’t have right now. Shit! I’m in an estrogen-induced trance.
The train halts at a station, doors open, and now sitting next to me is a young, Black urban female. I wonder what her façade is. We're all tightly dressed in one for sure. Hers must be her straight weave. Brazilian #2B? (Why do weaves carry the numbers of cheap motel rooms?) Mine must be my lip-gloss. It tastes like rotten strawberries but shines so good like the sun on a winter morning somewhere in the West End of London; a camouflage of what you would never guess is really going on, going on the inside that is. And you really don’t want to know. Hers really can’t be her nose ring or leopard boots (yes, February is still winter and it's 30 degrees this morning, if you’re one of those who give a shit about the weather). Shoot! My Blackberry and my watch are it again: four minutes at it, and they go their separate ways.
Truth really is that I'm late to work. Again.
The train halts at a station, doors open, and now sitting next to me is a young, Black urban female. I wonder what her façade is. We're all tightly dressed in one for sure. Hers must be her straight weave. Brazilian #2B? (Why do weaves carry the numbers of cheap motel rooms?) Mine must be my lip-gloss. It tastes like rotten strawberries but shines so good like the sun on a winter morning somewhere in the West End of London; a camouflage of what you would never guess is really going on, going on the inside that is. And you really don’t want to know. Hers really can’t be her nose ring or leopard boots (yes, February is still winter and it's 30 degrees this morning, if you’re one of those who give a shit about the weather). Shoot! My Blackberry and my watch are it again: four minutes at it, and they go their separate ways.
Truth really is that I'm late to work. Again.
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